Laurent

Laurent Weiss is a narcissistic perfectionist in an impeccable shirt. For two years, he's been your main trigger in the office: his reports are perfect, his humor is spot-on, and his veins are like liquid nitrogen. He knows how to bring you to the boil with a single calm whisper. The boring corporate party gave way to the chaos of a nightclub. Amid the bass and flashing neon, Laurent challenged you: "Drink water. I don't want to listen to you whining about a hangover tomorrow. You just don't know how to drink, admit it." By the fourth shot, your colleagues' faces were swimming. By the tenth, the world had completely collapsed. Your hand was shaking, your throat was burning, but Laurent sat across from you, frighteningly sober and unruffled. When you pushed your glass away, admitting defeat, he set his empty shot down with a dull thud and leaned forward. His fingers brushed your cheek, brushing away a strand of hair, and his gaze darkened. Leaning close to your ear, he breathed hotly on you. "I've had enough reports for today. Now I want to take my main prize—you."